Neither Water Nor Shade
by suliswrites
Summary: A little smutty oneshot. The inevitable can only be denied for so long. "He could not concentrate through the day if he did not partake in it. He could not sleep through the night if he did not partake, yet again. And still, partake as he did, abandon himself to it as he did - nothing would do. No amount of cleansing through the fire would sate it. Still. Nothing but her would do."


**A/N:** As I was at home sick today working on Insight - (the next Ch. of The Unforgivables is in my beta's hands!) - this little piece bounded out of me. Rather than hide it away until those are finished, I thought why not share it. Perhaps I'll revisit it down the line once I've completed the others, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoy it as a one-shot. Reviews + kudos always dearly appreciated.

Enjoy,

sulis

* * *

No other pleasure could erase her from his mind.

No habitual activity, no cherished vice, would transmute him back to himself.

Lucius began to wonder if the girl had permanently neutered him. If he would never again find satisfaction in anything, till he had her.

He poured himself another three fingers of Ogden's vintage and stood leaning one arm against the mantle, staring into the fire.

Did he require owning her ecstasy to recover his own?

The thought of it, of a path forward, was the only solace he'd yet found.

Being Master over things came so naturally to him. Everything had a price. Some things even wanted to be owned. Delighted to be.

If he could only break her to his will, he would know himself again. Of this he was certain. If he could only see her, bent over his desk, delirious and keening like a wild animal as he filled her; he would know himself.

He indulged in that particular image quite often. Thought how the slick, ambrosial proof of her pleasure would stain the papers on his desk, as he forced her leg up to claim her deeper. How her hands would grip, white-knuckled, at the mahogany. Taking all of him. How she'd wear stains of quill ink for weeks, in his memory.

_Oh, to mark that witch._

The speed at which she'd taken over his thoughts alarmed him. Lucius was a man of carefully bred and strictly enforced self-control. This sudden inability to redirect his thoughts was weakness. Disgrace; disgraceful in ways he wouldn't even allow himself to think.

No pure-blooded lady of pedigree had ever roused him thus. No proper witch had ever begun to own _him,_ in thought, craving, and action. Until her.

It was repulsive. The hours spent. Furiously stroking himself to visions of her. Glamoring harlots to her image and fucking them senseless - though there did not exist a spell that could mimic that brilliant mind in anyone, which made it all so damnably unsatisfying. Then, as if that weren't enough - the dreams. Starting and ending each day in this disgusting ritual exorcism of desire. Spilling his precious seed for such tainted soil.

He could not concentrate through the day if he did not partake in it.

He could not sleep through the night if he did not partake, yet again.

And still, partake as he did, abandon himself to it as he did - nothing would do.

No amount of cleansing through the fire would sate it. Still.

Nothing but her would do.

* * *

_Keep your head down. Indulge in none of the system's machinations but what is necessary to facilitate your work. The true work; that which means so much to you._

Hermione wasn't so consumed by her purpose not to have noticed. That there were many different kinds of stares to be watchful of, particularly in a political snake-pit such as the Ministry.

Stares of challenge. Stares of alliance. Stares of sycophants. Stares of threat. Stares of fame. Stares of admiration. Stares of disgust. All of these, Hermione received on a weekly basis.

But a stare of desire - now that, was very different. And, coming from him, highly unexpected.

She knew men well enough. And all men, no matter their allegiance, their house, were not so different. A stare of that kind was unmistakable.

After the first incident's initial shock wore off, she found a victorious sort of thrill take its place.

_How are the mighty fallen._

She took a cruel joy in thinking what self-flagellation lusting after a mudblood must incur in someone like him. 'The Noble House of Malfoy.'

After the second incident, triumphant thrill turned to alarm.

No fleeting fancy, then. A forbidden thirst that even ancestral pure-blooded hellfire could not quench.

The third time it happened, distant alarm turned to fantasy.

She hadn't meant for it to.

Hermione had simply wondered at just what, exactly, he wanted, which led her to picture it. In detail of every sound, taste, and sight.

And to blush, as her traitorous body actually began to ache at the very thought.

Then quite suddenly, it became difficult not to picture it.

She pictured how hate could ignite a pleasure so very different from love. How it could nourish a vast garden of ecstasies, that required neither water nor shade.

She imagined how giving up control could feel like freedom.

How obeying a will that rivaled her own could somehow feel like being known and knowing.

She couldn't stop the labyrinth of phantasmic visions in their onslaught.

The handsome sneer that glared down at her as she worked her body into frenzies. Panting whispers of _Yes, Please - Your good girl, Yours -_ to the condemning darkness. Late in the night. So many nights.

Then, when that wasn't enough, again in the loo during precious work hours, seeking some way to rid herself of the distracting, shameful possession. Which never worked.

And so, it was then: the fourth time he looked at her with that scorching hunger, that she knew what would eventually happen.

And when she heard her breath tremble as it left her, standing beside him in that crowded lift, Hermione knew that he knew it too:

That she would fight, defend to the last bastion of her moral resolve, with every ounce of her spirit.

And that he would break it. One day. When she could no longer resist him.

He would have her.


End file.
